


Nothing wrong with us

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Don't tell MG about this [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A real person asked for it, Coatlock, Gen, Humour, Myfridge, No Incest, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10066754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock walks in on Mycroft and fridge. He confesses he's in an established relationship with his coat.





	

Sherlock had a reason for breaking into Mycroft's house. The aftermath of Sherrinford was mainly the increased level of Mycroft's meddling and intrusion in his little brother's life. The resulting frustration was awfully distracting and Sherlock had to convince Mycroft to reconsider and mind his own business. The solution was simple- break into his house and rearrange as much furniture as possible and fill the refrigerator with all sorts of sweet treats. 

Sherlock took the advantage of his insomnia and sneaked into the house at three in the morning. Carrying heavy bags filled with artificially sweetened goods, he made his way to the kitchen. To his dismay, someone was there, perhaps another burglar or a goldfish, certainly not Mycroft. He was useless without at least six hours of sleep. Sherlock left the bags on the floor and tiptoed to the kitchen, prepared for a fight.

The closer he got, the more he heard. It was definitely Mycroft, but the noises were most confusing. Gasps, pants, grunts and the sound of the refrigerator door being opened. One was not like the others. A kitchen was a controversial place for a bit of self-love and Sherlock cringed at the thought of Mycroft snacking while masturbating. Yet that was exactly what appeared to be happening. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock and he didn't turn around, no, he had to see it, if only to confirm that he wasn't the sexually awkward Holmes brother.

Sherlock thought nothing could surprise him, but the sight of Mycroft having sex with his fridge proved him wrong. Nothing had ever shocked him more and he wasn't even sure which part of the sexual act was more distressing. The complete nudity of his brother, the sheer idea of combining coldness with sex or Mycroft's evident enthusiasm. Clearly, there was no goldfish in his life, but he had a goldmachine.

Mycroft was leaning against the opened fridge, his hips thrust in rhythmically and he seemed to be spreading something on his chest. He was so lost in the perverse pleasure that he didn't sense Sherlock's presence immediately. That gave Sherlock more than enough time to contemplate his own intimate relationship with his beloved coat. Could they blame it on their mother? Not enough hugs, too unusual names?

While Sherlock hesitated whether to stay and confront Mycroft or not, the unusual stimulation brought Mycroft to a puzzlingly intense orgasm. Sherlock cursed himself silently, he didn't want to witness this part, but it was too late. He watched his brother slump against the empty shelves and gasp for air, the exertion must have been difficult for the laziest Holmes. After a minute or two, Mycroft recovered enough to step away from the fridge. It was then that he heard Sherlock's breathing and his relaxed body tensed again. Slowly, he turned to face Sherlock, his expression cold and condescending, despite his nudity and, Sherlock snorted at the sight, various substances smeared on his torso. face and, yes, groin. Mashed potatoes, whipped cream and buttercream icing. 

Mycroft showed no embarrassment or anger as he reached for his dressing gown. He put it on, disregarding the general stickiness of his front and lit a cigarette. As he exhaled a cloud of smoke, he said in his scarily calm, even voice, 'You do realise I have to kill you now.'

Sherlock laughed at the idea, his brother could be so amusing at times, unintentionally.

'My God, Myc, tell me you didn't do this at home. It's so unsanitary.'

Mycroft gave him his ultra-intimidating look, ruined entirely by the icing on his chin and cheeks. 'I assume you're pleased to have found my pressure point. Can you leave now? I have to clean up.'

It had to be an important part of the ritual, Sherlock thought. Mycroft deserved privacy but also honesty. Just to be on the safe side, Sherlock kept the distance and took a deep breath, preparing himself to reveal his biggest secret.

'This must be a Holmes thing.' he began reassuringly. Mycroft tilted his head, curious. 'I'm in a similar relationship...' Sherlock confessed.

No one else would understand but Mycroft, obviously, knew the appeal of forming such an attachment to an inanimate object. 'Coat,' he stated calmly, not a hint of mockery or judgement in his voice. Perhaps he was aware of how comforting it was to curl up on the bed with the coat, stroke the tweed and lick the buttons. The alternative, a sweaty, demanding human being, seemed repulsive.

Instead of a verbal confirmation, Sherlock touched the collar of the coat. It was supposed to be quick and minimally passionate, just to show Mycroft that his deduction skills were enviable. But even the inappropriate situation and the audience didn't stop Sherlock from enjoying the rough texture of the wool. It would be so easy to close his eyes, ignore Mycroft and let his hands wander, explore every inch of the coat, penetrate the red buttonhole. 

'Do you think there's something wrong with us, Mycroft? Fridges and coats cannot give consent. Are we... like Eurus?'

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively, scattering ash on the already filthy floor. 'Do not compare us to Eurus. We do not hurt our partners. My fridge is the only person who understands me and I would never hurt her.'

'I could say the same thing about my coat,' Sherlock said, relieved. Belstaff never complained and was always so accommodating and warm.

The post-orgasmic bliss was fading away and Mycroft took deeper drags on his cigarette, clearly displeased with the unwanted company. Obviously, the impressive mess he made was tolerable only when he was distracted by pleasure. There was no reason to ask for discretion or utter pointless threats, neither of them would expose so intimate a secret. Despite all the differences, their tastes were strangely similar. It had to be a Holmes thing. God only knew what uncle Rudi truly loved.

**Author's Note:**

> This series will always have a special place in my heart. Writing has never been that painful.


End file.
